Blessed Unrest

The guitar's shell like a conduit for the wind which at first timidly sifted through the strings, barely strumming them, then pulsed & howled from within, gathering force before blasting out through the strings again, rattling them against the fingerboard. The golf course is kinda nice, she said, but the view is shit. It must kinda knock them out. I mean coming out here, all those guys hitting balls the whole day, looking at this shitty skyline & the green field. Must make them kinda dizzy like they'll soon fall on their faces. All the balls just flying up one after the other, then jumping around the bright grass. She started scavenging through her bag & coat pockets & said I thought I had something to drink around here. He said I got something & opened up his case & pulled out a palm-sized bottle of Stolichnaya. She took a few sips & passed it back. They must feel kinda like little children, watching those balls falling one after the other, like children looking out windows at the snow falling, like children who can't go out in the cold & they sit at the window until night comes & they forget that they ever wanted to go out & forget the lullabies they were taught to sing & whisper beneath the sheets schlaf nun selig und süß, schau im Traums Paradies.